


Greater than my Gold

by SongsofSamael



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Mermaids, Mermen, Multi, Supernatural Elements, merfolk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 21:56:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4641636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SongsofSamael/pseuds/SongsofSamael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So I saw TMFU again and um. <br/>I really liked that water scene.<br/>You know the one.<br/>Anyway, this happened.<br/>In which Gaby is a sea goddess, Illya is a Good Guy(TM), and Napoleon, of course, is the Little Merman. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Greater than my Gold

_The man made of gold and ivory was fast sinking in the indigo water._

Napoleon had been shaken out of his dozing slumber to the eruption from above. Gunfire; the rain of bullets opening ripples on the ceiling where the sky and land lurked overhead. From below this mirrored terrain, Napoleon watched the red glare of warning lights, heard the muffled roar of engines and the faint snarling of dogs. Propellers churned blue waters crimson and white with froth and blood. He clutched the dark mud of the shoreline's underbelly and held his breath--though it was hardly necessary.

His tail flicked agitatedly behind him; furling and uncurling like a long, sinuous thread of silver and blue. Long fins trailed silent questions off on the silty bottom of the makeshift port, the Siamese fighter element of his species leaving long lines in the disturbed soil. He hummed a low note to the surrounding area and was answered with a series of clicks that informed him just where the main source of the problem was coming from. Echolocation on point, as usual. Adept as always at determining an out, the underwater thief shifted and dipped out of sight of long, reaching searchlights, drifting away from the disruption.

Skirmishes in the above world were nothing new. Since the rise of humans, from their industrial revolution on, there had been a sense of unease he tended to stay far, far away from. In fact, like most of his kind, Napoleon stole his name from the first (and last) human he encountered. A small, but ferocious young Italian from whom Napoleon took...a medal. Nothing significant. "Metal", "medal". They could always make more. He kept it; circled the letters with his fingers until he had memorized the name. And made it his. Then he'd sworn never to go back; not back to the places of wood with weapons of fire and gunpowder (what sense did THAT make, he'd ask you). Unless something shiny caught his eye via passing cargo, of course. Napoleon prided himself on keeping few things humans valued, but their glittering jewels and gold drew his eye time and again. Thus far he'd managed to ensnare a considerable amount of treasure for himself; something his fellows shook their heads at. All of which he'd dedicated to their goddess, but still, his people did not understand. The drive, the need to surround himself with beautiful things. It was a hunger. Or, in their opinion, a sickness. This need to possess. To control. To worship. 

Survive, he'd been informed, time and again by his despairing, extinguishing brethren. Their numbers were running low. Survive, they told him. Survive, procreate, survive, relish food and shelter and little else. Their world was shrinking. Soon, there wouldn't be a grotto or a cave that hadn't been intercepted by overly-intrusive humans. Always looking to expand. They were a two-legged, land-loving algae, humans. They invaded, destroyed ecosystems, took over, and left when there was nothing to spare. 

Napoleon watched from his perch on a shelf, the sea bed below crawling with tired crustaceans and wiggling flounder nosing their way along the sandy banks. Catching a snail between his fingers from the wall, Napoleon savored the rich taste of pulpy flesh after sucking it from its curly-whirly shell. The gunfire above continued, rat-a-tat'ing long, intimidating lines into the night. There was some more indistinguishable yelling, before something much bigger than discarded shells (a less savory variety than the one Napoleon turned in his hands, he might add) and bullets of humans plunged into the water a click or two away.

Napoleon froze. The sudden invasion was not one he'd been expecting. Boats, yes, but not this. Bodies were dumped over the docks, from time to time (another good reason to stay away from the shore). His goddess, the one who granted life to all things of the sea; who turned the currents and shaped every granule of sand, was exhausted by the constant cleanup of human messes--including, but not limited to, pollution, oil rigs, pearl smuggling, and, yes, body-dumping. 

It was his kind's small task to return the remains to shore if they couldn't be salvaged for the eating of fishes. Circle of life, and all that--it wasn't meant to be morbid.

Napoleon waited until the gunfire had diminished and the night was silent again. The passing of maybe half a minute, perhaps. He was not, however, by any stretch of the imagination, a patient specimen. His wiry frame and sleek fins spoke more of speed and dexterity more than they did endurance and power. 

He winked in and out of sight in the moonlight as he skimmed the bottom of the seabed, about twenty-five feet down, running along the Naples wall. Naples was not his preferred area of migration, but he'd stopped for the evening en route following a vessel carrying a large amount of copper. Copper was nice. Napoleon liked the way it shone in the sun and greened with age. It was a magic metal, copper was. It held secrets spilled only by the most skillful of hands. 

He came upon the discard in three swift strokes. A body, as he'd suspected. A tall one, at that; broad, and with the weight of iron looped around its ankles. A loose anchor to keep him pinned to the floor, no doubt. The chain was stained red where it'd cut the body; dual lines of red dyeing the water more of the same. 

It was only then that Napoleon saw the face; the body turning in the water on its string as if propelled by some force greater than that of the currents and waves rocking it.

It was a man, obviously--a human, even more obviously. But the man was unlike any Napoleon had ever seen.

His hair was gold. That was the first thing Napoleon noticed. Gold; white-gold, the purest hue that caught the moonlight and wore it like a crown. Like laurels from the old days, before everything became oil and war. His frame; though made ragged by nicks and cuts and holes, was immense--a gargantuan figure more statue than flesh. He was pale-fleshed; ashen with pain but also naturally pale. The cut of his face was sharp and jagged; with cheekbones jutting out in defiance under skin made taut by the clenching of an iron jaw. His hands, behind his back, still twitched--

And Napoleon's eyes widened; the realization striking him that this monster...this man...might still be alive.

His first instinct was to flee--to charge back into the dark and follow his copper vessel; sneak aboard and slip away with handfuls of the metal before anyone even suspected he'd been there (and no one ever did). But something held him there. Something in the water anchored him as much as it did the tall man carved from marble and determination, who bled ruby trails like signalfire in the ocean. Dual flares, sending signals...asking for his help.

A sharp stone took care of the rusting chain, at least around the other's hands. Much squirming and writhing; pushing the weight away from the captive's ankles and legs, took care of the rest. Napoleon was certain he was running out of time, if the man had any left at all to spare. He silently hoped the goddess was in a forgiving mood; and would call the seawater out of his lungs when (when, not if) Napoleon got him safely to the surface. 

The thought was a worrisome one. Napoleon thought, again, of the bounty waiting for him on the copper merchant's ship and the way the metal would shine in his home; back home, in an Atlantic more familiar than this. 

But he thought also of the way the human man looked; under all his bravado and intensity, a little bit sad. 

(Well, he was shot full of holes, Napoleon, of course he was sad.)

There was a moment's hesitation as Napoleon finally slapped the chains away with the blunt force of his fin, his webbed fingers cradling the pale edges of the drowning man's cheeks. His webbing turned from cobalt to indigo; stained by the deep red of the wounds on the other's face.

Blue-tinted lips found peach. He breathed life into the other's lungs; shared with him the conversion of oxygen and the promise of a tomorrow where there hadn't been one before. Napoleon thought, for a moment, he saw the other's eyes slide open (a bright, electric hue like lightning over the Caribbean--like sunshine through the ice chips at the Arctic Circle; like the sky when he rose to stretch his body out come morning), and cupped his hands tighter around the human's face. 

The churning of his long tail stirred the sea around them into a caldera of foam and bubbles, the waves overhead becoming more and more obvious; more riotous, until they burst to the surface together, Napoleon thrusting the injured man onto the nearest lip of the sea walls, dropping back down with a thunderous crash into the rocky chasm below. He submerged instantly, recuperating from the shock of his own stupidity as he waited with baited breath (no pun intended).

Perhaps she'd heard him. Perhaps, as usual, she had come to inspect his offering. Perhaps, by her standards, he had done well.

Napoleon watched from the water, and waited.

Waiting for this offering on the sea wall, tossing oysters up to the hungry gulls still tiredly beating their wings in the moonlight, was a small and unsuspecting woman with a bandanna tied around her flyaway brown hair. Her tanned hands caught the return of pearls as the birds circled her in a windfall of feathers. Coughing seawater and the semi-sweet taste of escargot, the bloodied, beaten man sent to hunt down pirates sagged on the rocks before her. She almost pitied him, this spat-back remnant of something powerful. Someone trying to do good despite all odds, whose lack of trust had brought him here; alone. Rescued by her and her ilk. Were it not for Napoleon's soft-heartedness for pretty things, she knew this one would not have survived. More's the pity. His heart was a good heart. His was not a conscience warped by greed, but rather, honed by justice.

It's what brought him here to begin with, after all. 

The goddess hummed as she popped a pearl between her lips, and chewed.

"Do you know who you are?" The man glanced up at her, blue eyes wild and confused. He could've sworn he'd seen a man with a fish tail before--a man with raven hair and scales like sapphires. That was impossible. Almost as impossible as the way the longer the woman looked at him, the less pain he felt. The slower he bled. Like the tide; ebbing away.

"Illya," he began, voice ragged. "Illya K--" The woman flicked up a hand, silencing him effectively--he was too tired; too done to argue. 

"No," said the woman patiently, lips twitching into a beatific smile. Her hands curved around knees that appeared to be covered by a mix of denim and watercolors; clothing that flowed to impossible lengths, trailing the sea wall; becoming algae, seaweed, moss...Illya dizzily shook his head, laying back down against the stones. "I will tell you who you are." 

"Then who?" asked Illya weakly. He heard the woman chuckle softly above him, and felt a hand colder than the water he'd just been saved from settle on his brow.

"Mine," said the goddess simply.

The moon and the sea were the last things he saw.


End file.
